He Doesn't Scream
by Goblin Cat KC
Summary: Short one-shot. Raphael considers Leonardo's constant silence. Turtlecest. RaphaelxLeonardo.


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He Doesn't Scream   
by KC **  
Disclaimer**: Ninja Turtles belong to someone else. Not me. **  
Summary**: Raphael considers Leonardo's constant silence. **  
Other Info**: a KC drabble, which means I reject your notions of short and substitute my own.

I've seen him frustrated enough to growl, but always low in the back of his throat, barely audible. I've seen him crash through windows to get to us, but broken glass makes more noise than he does. Karai ran him through with a damn sword, and all he did was breathe.

Makes me wonder what all that meditation is for. Hours in front of candles, sometimes whole rows of candles around him, flickering in the dark and throwing strange shadows on his face. I watch him sometimes for as long as I can stand, lean against the wall and stare at him. I can barely see his chest rise and fall. He sits there without twitching or shifting position. True, I'm not one for sitting still, but there's something weird about sitting still that long, even for him.

Meditation lasts just a few minutes for the rest of us. It's all we can stand. Meditation is supposed to be time to work out our stress, our confusion, our aggression. So maybe we don't have as much to work out as he does.

He doesn't laugh. Mike laughs, contagiously happy and so loud we have to sit on him to shut him up. Donatello will laugh, a little nervous and self-conscious sometimes, but it's there. And hell, even I'll let loose after a good joke, like those tv shows where people crash into things, or after I turn a prank back on Mike. Point is, we laugh.

He smiles. Sometimes. If he does laugh, it's like it escaped and he's gotta swallow it back. Usually the silence isn't so bad, when he smiles like Don laughs, all reluctant and nervous, or when Mike surprises him with a really good one, usually at my expense. But there's times when that silent smile is downright eerie.

He smiles after he wins a fight. It goes from smug to triumphant, or plain ol' infuriating if I'm the one that lost. It's worse when he climbs over me, silently covering me and pressing me against the floor. He might whisper something, might breathe a little louder, a little faster. He looks at me and smiles like he owns me, pisses me off so much I can't help but start yelling at him.

Not like when I win the fight. I'm a little bigger than he is now. Sometimes I can even grab his wrist or ankle when he's tired, and the match ends instantly. His eyes widen in surprise when he realizes he's caught, and then I fall backwards and drag him with me. If I've got his foot, then he goes backward with one leg already spread out for me while he cushions my fall. Then it's easy to pin his other knee down, wide open.

If I'm really lucky, while he's in my lap I can pin his wrists behind his back . He really hates that. Squirms the whole time, looks at everything but me and he turns red from embarrassment.

Never have to worry about him making noise. As rough as we are, he doesn't moan. Doesn't cry out or grunt. The most I get out of him is a whimper, and I have to work for those.

We don't treat each other like we're humans made outta glass. We both leave bruises and bites as we get as close as we can. We both think with our whole bodies. Words don't work. We argue with our fists, agree with our hands. Cry with our head and shoulders, speak as we run. Love as we bleed.

I make enough noise for both of us. When it's done and I let go, he sighs and sits up, slowly drawing himself back together. He catches his breath. As we both come down off the high, he lets me touch him. I let myself soothe the marks I've left. I remind both of us this wasn't a fight.

This is the most dangerous part. Raw, bleeding, exposed in ways we'll never be used to, the smallest mistake could break us and this fragile thing we have. I'll never admit it, but sometimes tremors go through me. Sometimes he trembles so badly I think he'll break no matter how gentle I am. Meditation takes something out of him, and I drive it all back in so fast that he can barely stand it.

His eyes are glass holding something back, and I'm afraid they'll shatter. He doesn't deal with this monster inside him like I do, constantly fighting back a dull edge of anger. He deals in bursts. A burst of meditation. A burst of calm. A burst of me. A little stronger, and I might send him screaming over the edge.

I've seen him frustrated enough to growl, but always low in the back of his throat, barely audible. I've seen him almost torn apart and somehow hanging onto shreds of himself. I've run him through, broken him and help put him back together.

So far, all he does is breathe.

end


End file.
